


This quintessence of dust

by velvetmornings



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Compulsory Heterosexuality, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, M/M, Minor Allura/Keith (Voltron), Minor Allura/Shiro (Voltron), Minor Character Death, POV Alternating, Side Allura/Lance (Voltron), Slow Burn, intricate rituals intricate rituals
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-15
Updated: 2020-03-15
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:34:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23151796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/velvetmornings/pseuds/velvetmornings
Summary: Long-time rivals, Keith and Shiro compete for the lady’s affections when they are both betrothed to Princess Allura. But whose affections are they actually winning?Even then, their rivalry had teetered the line of intimacy. Threats shared like affections in whispers: under candlelight and bated breath.“Asshole,” Keith had hissed as he shoved him on the shoulder as he passed. Shiro couldn’t help but smile at that, his heels tipping back to counteract the inertia.“You, too,” was Shiro’s response, though he was well passed earshot.
Relationships: Keith/Shiro (Voltron)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10





	This quintessence of dust

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The fic and section titles are from Hamlet by Billy Shakey-shakes.

**Dramatis Personae**

Keith Kogane

Takashi “Shiro” Shirogane

Krolia Kogane (ambassador of the Galran Republic)

Kolivan Kogane (husband of Krolia)

Princess Allura Clarasó de Altea (heir to the throne)

King Alfor the Great (Allura’s father)

Coran Hieronymus Wimbleton Smyth (Allura’s tutor)

Marelda Shirogane (Shiro’s mother)

Marci Shirogane (Shiro’s older sister)

Trini Shirogane (Shiro’s younger sister, Leila’s twin)

Leila Shirogane (Shiro’s younger sibling, Trini’s twin)

Fitzgerald “Fitz” Shirogane (Shiro’s baby brother)

Lance McClain

Katie “Pidge” Holt

Lotor Cañella (Son of Honerva)

Galloway (castellan of Ath)

“And if love is a thing held in common, I suppose we had that in common, too…”

**—The Secret History**

**Donna Tartt**

* * *

**I. Count myself a king of infinite space**

**Keith**

In the country of Alicante, the heir to the monarch commonly underwent a series of trials to determine their spouse and partner on the throne. As the successor was a princess who expressed a preference for men, she was to choose her husband—and by consequence _king_ —to be.

Except it was unlikely that was the truth at all. No one besides those within the walls knew what happened in the Castle of Lions. Anything that circulated to the common populace was mere rumor and more so if it reached Kolivan, Keith’s step-father. He never spoke much, but when he did it was ripe with gossip and supposed knowledge of the inner workings and politics of the Royal Family. He was obsessed. The classic fascination the working class has with those above. The jewels and crowns of spectacular opulence and empty promises. Keith always took Kolivan’s words with a grin and a pinch of salt. Keith didn’t believe him when he said that the King was near death. And he _especially_ didn’t believe him when he said Allura was seeking a spouse.

Yet here he was in his under clothes with a letter with the Royal wax seal cordially inviting Keith to a ball in a fortnight.

It was invariably an honor to be asked to be in the company of the Princess—Allura with her sprawling white hair and her open and forthcoming face. A young princess that despite her age was already showing sings of being a promising leader. Keith very well knowing the gravity of the situation prepared promptly. Of course, this wasn’t before wailing out for his mother upon seeing the return address on the letter:

> _0419 Castle of Lions, Phoenician ct, Altean province, Alicante._

Krolia rushes in with bedhead and squinting against the sunlight that streamed in through the kitchen window. Keith loved her like this. His mother was always a bit unguarded in the mornings, a bit unhinged. Like the eternal mask of conscientiousness and authority hadn’t quite slipped on yet.

“What is it, Keith?” She asks, her tone verging on annoyance. She softens when she sees the letter in his hands. Keith’s clutching at it like a lifeline.

“The Lions,” he says simply and hands it her, trying to hide the smile that threatens to break his face. The stationary is bent from where Keith was pressing his thumbs against it. Then Kolivan strolls in, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. It reminds Keith of the fact it’s a little half-past five in the morning.

“What’s happening here?” Kolivan asks.

“Keith is going to marry the queen!” Krolia shouts, beaming when she reads the return address. He hasn’t seen her this ecstatic in a long time. It strikes him then how much this could mean to his family.

“She’s not the queen—”

“ _Yet,_ ” Kolivan interjects.

This debate stretches for an inordinate amount of time. The words sound lifeless and rehearsed from the countless times they’ve had this discussion before, but it still leaves Keith breathless and smiling.

The letter read as follows:

> _Princess Allura Clarasó de Altea, daughter of by grace of the gods King Alfor the Great, to esteemed Keith Kogane, son of the ambassador of the Galran Republic, extending her most kind greeting._
> 
> _Oh, Keith! It’s been too long! I’m sure with your most recent affairs you are extremely occupied, for my father tells me you have begun your studies. We will host an event at the castle, preliminary arrangements before preparing for engagement (hectic as you can imagine). If you would do us the honour of blessing us with your company for this event, we’d be delighted to have you._
> 
> _Come as you are and we’ll take care of the rest._
> 
> _Yours, Allura._

He finishes rereading it for the fourth time and slides the creamy, white stationary back to Kolivan with a grin.

**Shiro**

Shiro was a man of honor, or at least he attempted to reminded himself of that every morning for breakfast when his patience was tested.

The table they sat at was vast and long. It had to be—to fit the whole family. The table’s legs had marble cravings of vine-like structures that seemed to ascend from the ground and onto its surface, whirring around the leg like a snake.

Fitz slams his tiny fist on the surface, his chubby legs dangling off of the edge of his seat as he giggles in glee. He was the youngest of the Shirogane siblings, nearly four years old now. Although technically a toddler, he was eternally a baby in the eyes of the family. He didn’t speak much, resorting instead to single-word sentences and pointing his stubby fingers at what he wanted.

“Fitz,” Shiro says, counting to ten internally, “Behave yourself, you’re at the table.”

“Is that what you’ll say when you’re king, Shiro?” Trini says, her lips smacking as she licks strawberry jam off of her fingers.

“I’m not going to be king,” Shiro replies, catching a plate before it makes contact with the floor. Trini’s twin, Leila, had whizzed by, nearly making all things of value and fragility in their path shatter. Nearly.

“Never say never,” His mother says, making her presence known by clinking her nails against the glass in her hands. She saunters—really the only way one could describe it—to the table and sits at the other end, opposite Shiro.

Shiro didn’t know it yet, but his life was about to change.

Their butler and friend, Wolfram, strolls in with an envelope. It was fat, and its content looked abundant. Wolfram makes a beeline to Shiro and drops the mail in his lap.

“Delivery, Mr. Shirogane,” he was smiling, so this was something. Shiro drops the silverware in his hands and it clatters against the porcelain.

“What is this?” He blinks up at Wolfram who just nods toward the envelope.

“Open it.”

In doing so, he notices what added to the width of the letter. It had a bright red wax seal, with the royal sigil embedded in it: a roaring sun and bright lion—or was it the other way around. His vision was starting to blur, the images mingling together. He has a distant sense that he’s dropped the letter and he should pick it up. And that’s how he feels from his mind and his body… distant.

“Shiro?” Wolfram says from above him… or was it Mother?

And then blackness.

—

A high shrill-like noise. When Shiro comes-to enough to recognize it, he realizes its Trini—and she’s laughing.

“Shiro has truly and honestly _fainted_. That’s hilarious!”

“Trini, that’s positively enough! Take your sister and go up to your rooms.” A pause. “Now!”

Shiro blinks rapidly when the lights start to have halos and cranes his head up toward his mother, who shushes him and slowly guides his head back down.

“Don’t worry, Shiro. Rest now, darling,” She says in a soothing voice only a mother can have. He realizes, somewhat distantly, that his mother had regained her Altean lilt since he’d blacked out. She only tended to do this in very limited occasions, when she’d spent an adamant amount of time with her own mother back east or when she was particularly trying to impress. Either never lead to good things.

“What was in the letter?” Shiro asks in a low voice. He presses his own hand to his face as his forehead throbs dully. He could feel a migraine coming in.

His mother makes a hitched noise and says, “You didn’t read it?” Her voice is strained and he can tell she’s withholding.

“No,” he says, risking a side glance at her, “Was it important?”

“Was it important,” she repeats, and her mouth breaks into a grin, “Takashi Shirogane, you are going to be king.”

**II. Doubt truth to be a liar**

**Keith**

The Royal sheep herding of possible fiancés didn’t quite have an official name. There was no official holiday or set date when such a thing was bound to happen. It was just more likely to occur when it seemed the current head of the kingdom seemed to be on their last legs, and the rest was just assumed. Of course, that didn’t stop everyone _else_ from dubbing it names over the years, the quasi-official one being “The Reckoning” since it seemed to pervade all others in terms of frequency. Keith, however, was impartial to “The Culling” since it seemed a little more romantic.

He won’t lie and say he hasn’t dreamt of this. He just never thought it was even fathomable in this version of reality, and now it seemed nearly in his grasp: _King_. _King Keith Kogane,_ even the alliteration felt natural and real—like it was meant to be. The crown, his alas. The true romance in all this if there was one.

The reality of that last thought hits truer than he likes, even though Keith had thought he had long since made peace with the fact that he’d never wed. If he did, it would never be with someone he truly loved, but such was the fate of men like him. Bound by honor and imposed by a deeper force to never love with his whole heart. He supposed he was better off that way.

Keith makes it to the Royal Culling by way of carriage ordered by the Crown. It was a languid and uneventful journey only punctuated by the tips of the towers of the Castle of Lions that greet him at the horizon. He’s ushered in by a servant that takes his bags.

The man introduces himself as Galloway the Castellan of Ath. He shakes Keith’s hand vigorously and urges him that Princess Allura will be up to welcome him soon. Keith inquires how a castellan became a servant of the Castle but he only replied that he owed Allura a favor. He accompanied this with a wink, but Keith didn’t know what the joke was.

The Princess in question approaches to greet him then. Keith momentarily startled, forgets to lean to bow, but it was no matter because the Princess rushed up to hug him with more warmth than he’d ever expected to receive. When she pulled away, she offered to give him the Royal Tour and beckoned him to follow.

“His family owns acres of land not too far from here,” Allura tells Keith nearing the end of the tour, where Keith saw many sights and digested nothing. Her eyes were fleeting, obviously too preoccupied with searching the room for the subject at hand. They had stopped at the entrance where more guests were expected to arrive. Other candidates, Keith presumed. A pang of jealousy rang through Keith’s chest at this. He had been a guest at the Castle for a measly four hours before Allura’s attention was engrossed by someone else.

**Shiro**

“And he’s perhaps your biggest competition,” Allura finishes, her eyes brightening as Shiro exits his carriage. His feet plant onto the cool, damp grass. The morning dew just beginning to fade. Shiro raises his eyes expecting to be greeted with Allura’s shatteringly blue ones. He’s not given that pleasure. “Keith, I’d like you to meet Sir Takashi Shirogane.”

Keith spins to follow Allura’s gaze. A blur of red and whites. His movements are quick and deliberate as they always are, both on the _piste_ and in person. Shiro responds in kind, by gliding forward and outstretching his arm. Their hands meet in a shake and he squeezes it just a bit too hard. He can see Keith wince and quickly tries to recover, but it’s too late—Shiro sees and in response he tries to hide his smile in his tiny triumph.

It’s been far too long. It’s been years really, but the fire of heat and hate in his chest feels as real and as new as if it had never left.

A memory comes to him in a swirl like a dream:

**(Years prior.)**

The tip of his lance made contact with his chest. Shiro tilted his head like he’s daring him to keep going, to break the skin. _Do it_ , he thought. _It’s pointless anyway_.

“That’s enough,” Sanda said from her dark corner, the tips of her fingers at her chin as she studied their movements. But she made no further move to stop them, so Shiro took that as encouragement and lunged forward when Keith’s eyes had flitted toward Sanda in a fleeting moment of distraction. Keith was always thinking about the grade, first second and last. It made him a good student, but it didn’t necessarily make him a good fighter—it didn’t ensure survival. “Shiro, it’s sparring. You’re not meant to _kill_ him.”

Sanda rushed forward to stop the fight, Keith, her golden child had fallen to the mat in a thump. His scar on his cheek was more prominent in this light, a poignant reminder of the only time Shiro had fought him and won.

Keith got up from the mat with the help of Shiro’s outstretched hand, but he let go of it the moment he was on his feet like Shiro’s skin was hot to the touch. He gave Shiro a look like he might burn him with his gaze if he could, those big purple eyes.

Even then, their rivalry had teetered the line of intimacy. Threats shared like affections in whispers: under candlelight and bated breath.

“Asshole,” Keith had hissed as he shoved him on the shoulder as he passed. Shiro couldn’t help but smile at that, his heels tipping back to counteract the inertia.

“You, too,” was Shiro’s response, though he was well passed earshot.

**(Present.)**

“Nice to meet you,” Keith says now, with a tight smile.

“Oh, don’t do that,” Shiro says, tilting his head toward Allura and winking, “Don’t lie to the lady.” He turns to address her. “We know each other.”

“Do you?” Allura asks, though her face remains neutral Shiro can tell it hides worlds and wonders. “I hope that won’t complicate matters.” Her voice is low, almost timid. It’s a bit disconcerting to know this is the same woman that will soon lead the world—the only thing that gives her away is her stance, like they were planted there, cemented. Like she has every right to walk on the ground she stands on. It’s a confidence very few have, but Shiro admires anyway.

“Not at all,” Shiro says, looking at Keith who had seemed to become unnaturally still, “Right, Keith?”

“Right.”

**III. This dreaded sight twice seen of us**

**Keith**

Another guest arrives soon after Shiro, one that shook Keith’s assuredness to its core: Lotor.

His father was an attempted usurper. Zarkon was so disgraced his own son opted to drop the family name altogether, simply going by his forename—which Keith thought to be perfectly pretentious, by the way. When he introduced himself, however, he said:

“Lotor _Cañella_. It was my great uncle’s name—from my _Altean_ mother’s side. He was an explorer. And I thought what better way to honor the Cañella legacy than to join it with the Royal Altean bloodline.“

He was also incredibly cocky.

Lance was especially furious by his presence, primping up when he was around him like a cat around a dog. Lance often voiced these concerns to Keith in conspiratorial whispers, concern Keith often refuted just to spite him. _He seems like a nice guy_ , Keith would say, Lance turning red with rage. Lance was convinced Lotor was trying to kill him. Allura was evidently more impressed.

Presently, Keith’s fork stabs the plate in front of him, the silver’s contact with the porcelain producing a shrill that causes everyone to wince at once.

The candidates and the Princess had all gathered for dinner, wooden chairs and cloth cushions and tables longer than what could be considered practical. He supposed the extravagance of it all was something he might as well get used to. The pressure and the stakes didn’t allow for one to enjoy the meal without tension, however, imagined or otherwise.

Lance McClain sat across from Keith at the table, defiant and grinning with his floppy hair and his too-straight teeth. Allura was seated next to him, tall and radiant in the glow of the candlelight.

For a moment, Keith allows himself to imagine that they’re alone having dinner as King and Queen, and not in their current situation surrounded by so many people that stood to threaten that reality. Shiro had been seated at the far end of the table, endowed in white silk and gold patterning, and wearing a flower headdress far too akin to a crown. It was infuriating.

Something emerges. Repressed and uninvited. A memory:

**(Years prior.)**

Keith’s face had been clean and glean and fresh. Not scarred, not yet.

“Doesn’t it ever make you depressed?” Keith teased, his toes kicking at Shiro’s shin from behind. He had his sparring sword in his hand, twirling it over and over again as he spoke.

Shiro was usually intent on ignoring him when it came to banter, not one to bite back. But _this_ time he took the bait. The question seemed to startle more than anger him.

“What?” Shiro replied, spinning to face him. He was toweling off his sweat, a result of a recent fight. Not with Keith though, surprisingly enough—but with a man named Adam. Shiro had let him win as far Keith could tell, but the effort had still drawn up a sweat. Shiro was never one to go down easy.

“Doesn’t your jealousy make you tired?” Keith continued, Shiro’s face fell at this. This had clearly gone in a direction he hadn’t expected—or maybe had expected, but wished it wouldn’t. Keith had won his three rounds with Hunk, the only other person in the class that gave either of them even a smidge of a challenge to beat—besides each other, of course.

“Stop.” Shiro said, turning again. He pushed open the faucet with his elbow, and cupped the water in his hands to wash his face, still watching Keith in the mirror. Keith continued to stand there unbothered, meeting Shiro’s stare in his reflection.

“No, really. It must be exhausting.” Keith said, feet tapping against the tiled floor of the locker room.

“Not as much as you exhaust me,” Shiro replied. His chest stuttered with a heavy sigh, fingers gripping the edges of the sink. He looked pale in the bright lights, and his muscles rippled under his skin with the effort.

“Oh, clearly,” Keith said with a shit-eating grin, before he twirled and left Shiro to his duress.

**(Present.)**

“So, how well do you two really know each other?” Lance now asks addressing Keith. His lips wrap around the piece of chicken on his fork. Lance, of course, knew the answer to this. He hadn’t been in the same Combat class as them, but had been in the same year so he must’ve heard all of the stories—and rumors. “You and Shiro.”

“Well enough,” Shiro replies for him, with a smirk and sip of his drink that seemed so loaded so as to spur on more rumors within this very castle and not just within the confines of the Garrison. “Well enough.”

**Shiro**

“Lotor,” Shiro says, his eyes flicking toward the man in question. At the address he starts somewhat, his utensils clanking against the plate as he drops them.

“Apologies,” Lotor whispers, and then louder, “Yes, Mr. Shirogane.”

“ _Sir,_ ” Shiro corrects, it was a title afforded to him for having won the Black Paladin competition. He doesn’t have to look at Keith to know there’s metaphorical fume coming out of his ears. “ _Sir_ Shirogane.”

Lotor closes his eyes like he can will himself to disappear in that moment, but when he opens them again he’s the face of amiability. “My mistake. Where are my manners? _Of course._ Sir.”

Shiro smiles despite himself, “Remind me. Why did you change your surname to Cañella?” It might as well have been a one-two punch because Lotor looks breathless. No one moves or speaks.

“As I said…” Deep breath. “It was my great uncle’s name from my Altean mother’s side.” It sounds quipped and rehearsed. He’s repeated it so often the words have lost meaning.

“Right, but was your father’s no good?”

It was the same approach Lance took in asking the nature of Shiro and Keith’s relationship: shake things up, intimidate your opponent. Except infinitely more calculated—and effective.

Lotor taps his fingers on the table like he’s considering, “It wasn’t. My father was somewhat disgraced if you can remember. Perhaps the history of that revolt wasn’t taught at your school.” It was a subtle dig, but a dig nonetheless. The Garrison as revered as it was, didn’t even reach the ankles of the private school Lotor attended.

“I’m sorry,” Shiro says, leaning forward, his hand splayed across his heart in faux-sincerity. “With the name change I hadn’t realized who your father _was._ You’re the son of the usurper, is that correct?”

“Attempted-usurper,” Lotor says without feeling.

Shiro hums as an answer and the bustle of conversation begins again.

Pidge was seated next to Keith, stabbing at her spaghetti languidly and without fervor.

“You know, Pidge. Speaking of kin, you do bear a resemblance to a sister of a friend of mine,” Shiro says—eyebrows shooting up.“Katie Holt, I think her name was.”

Pidge’s face turns a disconcerting shade of red, eyes widening and head shaking. She begs Shiro silently not to share her secret as Shiro considers.

His head tilts only slightly forward, as if studying her, “I think it’s the eyes,” and then he withdraws, and Pidge lets out an imperceptible sigh of relief.

“Shiro, how’s your family?” Allura says, raising her voice authoritatively. Though the circumstances call for it given she’s on the other side of the table. “Your _four_ other siblings? Do I have that right?”

Shiro nods politely and smiles. It’s real this time. “They’re fantastic. Thank you for asking. Fitz has gotten so big.”

“Oh, Fitz!” Allura shrills at the same time that Keith says meaningfully: “I didn’t know you had siblings.”

“You never asked,” Shiro says simply and turns back to Allura.

**IV. Dreamt of in your philosophy**

**Keith**

Keith repents and a burning rage simmers in his chest for just a moment as the heat of Shiro’s gaze washes through him, skipping over his eyes like he was a spot on the wall that only grabbed his attention for a moment. _You never asked._ Like Keith would’ve even bothered. Like Shiro would’ve ever provided an answer. It was ridiculous to think otherwise.

And now Keith would very much liked to be excused from the table. _Yes, very much so. No, Allura I would not like a nightcap sent up to my dormitory, thank you. Good evening and good night to all._ Instead Keith stood still at the table his fragile fingers trembling when he reached for the cup, setting it down again like it was a mistake he had done so in the first place.

There’s a glint and a clang of something sharp and metallic. A cry out of pain and the unmistakable smell of blood—like lake water and old iron. The servant, Galloway, that had been pouring Shiro’s water had fallen and crashed in a flourish, spilling the jug of water on the tablecloth in the process. Keith watches as the dark splotch the water conjures grows and creeps up to his side of the table.

Allura rises to assist, ever the Mary Magdalene. “Is everyone alright?” she asks, crouching to tend to the man on the floor but clearly addressing the room.

“Clearly not the servant,” Keith mutters, rising only for a moment from his seat to avoid the water that had begun to drip over his side of the table. The hilt of a knife protrudes from the man’s chest, dark lines spindling out like veins from where it was embedded. _Poisoned._

Shiro yanks the blade out by it’s thick, golden hilt. He twirls it in his hands, inspecting it. The glass canister it held in its handle was now empty. The blood of it’s victim poured down from it’s sharp edge and down onto Shiro’s leather-clad hand, but he didn’t seem to notice.

“Something’s rotten in the state of _Alicante_ ,” Keith declares, his head leaning on his hand like it might fall without its support. He remains unmoving from his seat at the table. This was just another one of Shiro’s stunts Keith was sure of it, a whirl of spectacle and the dramatic to gain sympathy and respect—but it seemed to do little for the very person it was aimed at. In those days, it was him.

“What would we do without your witty remarks, Mr. Kogane?” Shiro says, still staring at the knife. Then his head tilts back and his eyes meet Keith’s. It wasn’t a question.

“Die evidently,” is his response anyway.

**Shiro**

**(Years prior.)**

“I don’t have the patience for this right now, Kogane,” he said in a hiss, the light in his eyes were bleary and uncertain and threatening to drown him.

“You never have the patience for anything, _Shirogane_ ,” he emphasized his surname like a threat. Shiro knew Keith hated being referred to by his family name, which was precisely why he did it. A reminder of rank, or something else.

Shiro had a coldpress against his head, a damp towel in a foolhardy attempt to lessen the pain of the incoming headache. He could still feel his head pulsating through the cloth, Keith insulting him from above.

This was about the upcoming competition. The title Shiro and Keith had been competing for before either of them even knew what it was: _The Black Paladin_. Nationwide competition, held in Altea. Men and women of all types attended to watch the spectacle of who was the best fighter in the world.

Not winning was a fate worse than death for Keith, Shiro knew. He only told him as such with his desperation, with his insistence to be the best whatever it took. Sometimes Shiro flattered himself into thinking it was just to spite him. Other times he was reminded Keith would be this way no matter who was on the other side of the line.

**(Present.)**

Keith’s violent eyes and violet temper. Now the situation was the same, but with higher stakes. Thicker line, same fight. Keith’s face was still unscarred then, the skin of his cheek fresh and new, and as unblemished and perfect as the rest of him. Maybe neither of them would’ve kept this rage brewing under their skin if there wasn’t a constant reminder of it on Keith’s. Shiro had won and Keith remained furious.

Shiro knew then, as he knows now, the importance of family to Keith. Not only the importance of family, but that of _legacy_. He thinks perhaps his surname was so biting as an insult to him, because it was a bitter reminder of his origins: a blacksmith and a Galra. Eventually, Krolia became an ambassador on her own merits and met Kolivan thereafter. But the smear of Keith being born outside of wedlock, and to a blacksmith with no titles no less, remained.

Welding daggers to the King of the world was a development few could argue the charm of, Shiro being the only pretty little obstacle standing in the way of that fact.

**V. Providence in the fall of a sparrow**

**Keith**

“Someone is trying to kill me. Who has more motive than you?” Shiro asks. It’s clearly another rhetorical question. His hair is standing on end as he paces the empty expanse of the room, the only sounds their breaths and Shiro’s steps on the hardwood. They were alone, in a servant’s bedroom if Keith could guess. It was bland and practical, lacking the general flare in decorum that lavished any room members of the Royal family would happen to frequent.

“…you are clearly the one that has the next best claim after me,” Shiro continues, “I have an abundance of wealth and titles and—” Keith doesn’t hide his eye-roll at that, “a marriage to me would be smart and not out of the ordinary. I’m noble and well-liked. “

“Debatable,” Keith says.

Shiro continues like he hadn’t spoken, “A marriage to _you,_ however, is more clever. It’s political. A uniting of empires. The Galran Republic and the Altean Monarch at peace at last.”

The room smells lemony and sweet. An elaborate vanity sat in the far corner where Keith can spot his own reflection as Shiro’s form paces back and forth. Keith’s drops into the available chair next to the bed, kicking his feet up on the duvet. It nearly knocks him off balance as he hits the columns of the bedpost with his ankles and silently winces in pain.

“I think evidently peace wins over wealth and titles so I would have no reason to kill you if I’ve already won,” Keith deadpans. He was growing bored of this, Shiro driving himself in circles to convince not only himself but also Keith that his vendetta against him ran deep enough to commit murder. It didn’t.

“Ah,” Shiro says, wagging a finger like he was a detective in a B movie, “That’s where you’re wrong, Keith, because you have your personality working against you.”

“Excuse me?” Keith was beginning to feel offended, in a way the accusation of attempted murder hadn’t done so. “And how’s that?”

“You’re sarcastic and you’re vapid and you’re difficult. And that’s not exactly royalty material,” Shiro ticked off the traits with his fingers as he went.

“You’re flattering me,” Keith counters.

“And _that’s_ the worst part: you love it. So you won’t change for her or for her country,” Shiro says, his eyes settle on Keith’s as the weight of his words take its toll. “I don’t want this nearly as badly as you do Keith,” Shiro says, “Your virtue _,_ _and_ your flaw somehow, is that you’d kill for this if you could. And maybe you almost did.”

**(Years prior.)**

Keith can almost hear it now the wind rushing and the blood whistling—or was it the other way around—in his ears. Salt in his eyes, on his face, in his mouth. The sea air and sweat mingling. He clanged the tip of his sword on the floor as a threat, but its clumsy and tired like he is. His eyes swam and he was seeing double, somehow convinced Shiro had given him whatever disease he complained about when he couldn’t bear the sunlight anymore.

Shiro wavered in front of him, smiling. His face glistened with sweat, a thin sheen of blue in this light.

“It’s now or never, Keith,” he whispered, just for him. “Now or never.” And then he charged.

**Shiro**

**(Years prior.)**

Shiro doesn’t remember much of the fight if he’s honest—but he does remember the feeling.

Keith lay sprawled on his back, exhaustion rendering him unable to crane his neck up to watch as Shiro basked in his triumph. He kept the tip of his sword balanced on the hollow of Keith’s neck, as if to deter him from making any other sudden movements—like time hadn’t been called thirty seconds ago.

Eventually, Keith knocked the sword off him in frustration and neglected to take the hand Shiro offered to rise to his feet. When he did rise, however, Keith stood unmoving and expressionless and to Shiro’s complete and utter surprise said: “Congratulations.”

“Thank you,” Shiro said, though he said it so low he’s unsure if Keith heard it above the roaring of the crowd. He watched as the blood on Keith’s cheek slipped and dropped onto the cloth of the _piste_ below. It left a bright red dot behind upon impact, the first and only blood spilt in this fight. And hopefully the last.

**(Present.)**

Shiro knows now how naive he was to think that this fight would’ve ended then. With a gold medal and a handshake. He knows better now.


End file.
